Breakwater. Carla Neggers
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Praise for
CARLA NEGGERS
“Carla Neggers is one of the most distinctive, talented writers of our genre.”
—Debbie Macomber
“Neggers delivers a colorful, well-spun story that shines with sincere emotion.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Carriage House
“Tension-filled story line that grips the audience from start to finish.”
—Midwest Book Review on The Waterfall
“Suspense, romance and the rocky Maine coast—what more can a reader ask for? The Harbor has it all. Carla Neggers writes a story so vivid you can smell the salt air and feel the mist on your skin.”
—New York Times bestselling author Tess Gerritsen
“A well-defined, well-told story combines with well-written characters to make this an exciting read. Readers will enjoy it from beginning to end.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub on The Waterfall
“Neggers’s brisk pacing and colorful characterizations sweep the reader toward a dramatic and ultimately satisfying denouement.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Cabin
Breakwater
Carla Neggers
To Zack
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
1
Quinn Harlowe gave up trying to concentrate and tapped a few keys on her iBook, saving the file she’d been working on.
Defeated by an alphabet book, she thought, smiling at the little boy who’d crawled, book in hand, onto his mother’s lap at the next table. He made a face and turned his head away from her. His mother, flaxen-haired and smartly dressed, didn’t seem to notice and kept reading.
She was only on B. There was a lot of the alphabet to go.
Quinn took a sip of her espresso. The draft of the workshop she was giving at the FBI Academy next month would have to wait. She didn’t mind. It was just one o’clock on a perfect early-April Monday afternoon, and she was her own boss. She could work tonight, if necessary. Why not blow off an hour?
Thinking it would be cooler today, she’d worn a lightweight black cashmere sweater that now was too warm. At least she’d pinned up her hair, almost as black as her sweater, and had worn minimal makeup.
Four tiny, rickety tables, each with two chairs, and a row of big flowerpots filled with pansies passed for a patio at the small coffee shop just down the street from her office. Despite the gorgeous weather, she and the mother and son were the only ones outside, and the other two tables were empty.
Washington, Quinn thought, was never more appealing than in early spring.
She suppressed an urge to head off to Potomac Park and see the cherry trees—that would take the entire afternoon. Even native Beltway types like herself couldn’t resist the brief, incredible display of delicate pink blossoms on the more than three thousand Japanese cherry trees that lined the Tidal Basin in Potomac Park. The annual National Cherry Blossom Festival, which attracted tourists from all over the world, was winding down. In a matter of even just a day or two, the blossoms would be gone.
The mother was on the letter D. What would D be for? Quinn smiled—duck. Had to be.
Dinosaur.
She took a bite of her croissant, the bittersweet chocolate center soft but not melted. An indulgence. She’d have a salad for dinner.
“Quinn—Quinn!”
Startled, she looked up, crumbs falling onto her iBook as she tried to see who’d called her.
“Quinn!”
Alicia Miller ran across the street, heading for the small patio. Instead of going around to the opening by the coffee shop’s entrance, she pushed her way between two of the oversize flowerpots, banging her knees.
“I need your help—please.”
Quinn immediately got to her feet. “Of course, Alicia.” She kept her voice calm. “Come on, sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”
Gulping in a breath, Alicia stumbled over an empty chair and made her way to Quinn’s table. “I can’t—you have to help me.” She seemed to have trouble getting out the words. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Alicia—my God. What’s wrong?”
Tears had pasted strands of her fine dark blond hair to her cheeks. Her face was unnaturally flushed. Her eyes—almond-shaped, a pretty, deep turquoise—were red-rimmed and glassy, darting anxiously around her.
The young woman at the next table shut the alphabet book and grabbed her son around his middle, poised to run.
Quinn tried to reassure her. “It’s okay—Alicia’s a friend.”
But the woman, obviously not reassured, dropped the book on the table and lifted her son, his bottom planted on her hip as she swept up her slouchy, expensive tote bag and kicked the brake release on his stroller, pushing it in front of her toward the opening at the end of the flowerpots.
The little boy pointed at the table. “My book!”
“I’ll get you another.”
He screeched with displeasure, but his mother didn’t break her stride until she reached the sidewalk. She dumped the boy in the stroller, hoisted the tote bag higher onto her shoulder and was off.
Alicia didn’t seem to notice the impact she’d had on the mother and son. She couldn’t have gone to work today. Not in this shape, Quinn